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WAVE BOOKS SEATTLE AND NEW YORK MAGGIE NELS ON BLUETS PUBLISHED BY WAVE BOOKS WWW . WAVEPOETRY.COM COPYRIGHT© 2009 BY MAGGIE NELSON ALL RIGHTS RESERVED WAVE BOOKS TITLES ARE DISTRIBUTED TO THE TRADE BY CONSORTIUM BOOK SALES AND DISTRIBUTION PHONE: 8oo 283 3572 I SAN 631 76ox THIS TITLE IS AVAILABLE IN LIMITED EDITION HARDCOVER DIRECTLY FROM THE PUBLISHER LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN PUBLICATION DATA NELSON, MAGGIE, 1973 BLUETS I MAGGIE NELSON. 1ST ED. P. CM. ISBN 978-1 933517 40-7 (PBK. ALK. PAPER ) I. TITLE. PS3564.E4687B56 2009 8n'.54 Dc22 2009005830 DESIGNED AND COMPOSED BY QUEMADURA PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 FIRST EDITION WAVE BOOKS 020 And were it trne, we do not think all philosophy is worth one hour of pain. PAscAL, Pensees 1. Suppose I were to begin by saying that I had fallen in love with a color. Suppose I were to speak this as though it were a confession; suppose I shredded my napkin as we spoke. It began slowly. An appreciation, an affinity. Then, one day, it became more serious. Then (looking into an empty teacup, its bottom stained with thin brown excre ment coiled into the shape of a sea horse) it became some how personal. 2. And so I fell in love with a color-in this case, the color blue-as if falling under a spell, a spell I fought to stay un der and get out from under, in turns. BLU ETS 3· Well, and what of it? A voluntary delusion, you might say. That each blue object could be a kind of burning bush, a secret code meant fo r a single agent, an X on a map too diffuse ever to be unfolded in entirety but that con tains the knowable universe. How could all the shreds of blue garbage bags stuck in brambles, or the bright blue tarps flapping over every shanty and fish stand in the world, be, in essence, the fingerprints of God? I will try to explain this. 4· I admit that I may have been lonely. I know that loneli ness can produce bolts of hot pain, a pain which, if it stays hot enough for long enough, can begin to simulate, or to provoke-take your pick-an apprehension of the di vine. (This ought to arouse our suspicions.) 5· But first, let us consider a sort of case in reverse. In 1867, after a long bout of solitude, the French poet Ste phane Mallarme wrote to his fr iend Henri Cazalis: "These last months have been terrifYing. My Thought has thought itself through and reached a Pure Idea. What the rest of me has sufferedduring that long agony, is in- 2 BLU ETS describable." Mallarme described this agony as a battle that took place on God's "honey wing." "I struggled with that creature of ancient and evil plumage-God-whom I fo rtunately defeated and threw to earth," he told Cazalis with exhausted satisfaction. Eventually Mallarme began replacing "le ciel" with "l'Azur" in his poems, in an effort to rinse references to the sky of religious connotations. "Fortunately," he wrote Cazalis, "I am quite dead now." 6. The half-circle of blinding turquoise ocean is this love's primal scene. That this blue exists makes my life a remarkable one, just to have seen it. To have seen such beautiful things. To fnd oneself placed in their midst. Choiceless. I returned there yesterday and stood again upon the mountain. 7· But what kind of love is it, really? Don't fo ol yourself and call it sublimity. Admit that you have stood in front of a little pile of powdered ultramarine pigment in a glass cup at a museum and felt a stinging desire. But to do what? Liberate it? Purchase it? Ingest it? There is so lit tle blue fo od in nature-in fa ct blue in the wild tends to 3 BLUETS mark fo od to avoid (mold, poisonous berries)-that culi nary advisers generally recommend against blue light, blue paint, and blue plates when and where serving fo od. But while the color may sap appetite in the most literal sense, it fe eds it in others. Yo u might want to reach out and disturb the pile of pigment, for example, frst stain ing your fngers with it, then staining the world. Yo u might want to dilute it and swim in it, you might want to rouge your nipples with it, you might want to paint a vir gin's robe with it. But still you wouldn't be accessing the blue of it. Not exactly. 8. Do not, however, make the mistake of thinking that all desire is yearning. "We love to contemplate blue, not be cause it advances to us, but because it draws us after it," wrote Goethe, and perhaps he is right. But I am not in terested in longing to live in a world in which I already live. I don't want to yearn for blue things, and God fo rbid fo r any "blueness." Above all, I want to stop missing you. g. So please do not write to tell me about any more beau tiful blue things. To be fair, this book will not tell you 4 BLUETS about any, either. It will not say, Isn't X beautiful?Such demands are murderous to beauty. 10. The most I want to do is show you the end of my in dex fnger. Its muteness. 11. That is to say: I don't care if it's colorless. 12. And please don't talk to me about "things as they are" being changed upon any "blue guitar." What can be changed upon a blue guitar is not of interest here. 13. At a job interview at a university, three men sitting across from me at a table. On my cv it says that I am cur rently working on a book about the color blue. I have been saying this fo r years without writing a word. It is, per haps, my way of making my life feel "in progress" rather than a sleeve of ash falling off alit cigarette. One of the men asks, Why blue? People ask me this question often. I never know how to respond. We don't get to choose what or whom we love, I want to say. We just don't get to choose. 5 BLUETS 14. I have enjoyed telling people that I am writing a hook about blue without actually doing it. Mostly what hap pens in such cases is that people give you stories or leads or gifts, and then you can play with these things instead of with words. Over the past decade I have been given blue inks, paintings, postcards, dyes, bracelets, rocks, precious stones, watercolors, pigments, paperweights, goblets, and candies. I have been introduced to a man who had one of his front teeth replaced with lapis lazuli, solely because he loved the stone, and to another who worships blue so devoutly that he refuses to eat blue fo od and grows only blue and white flowers in his garden, which surrounds the blue ex-cathedral in which he lives. I have met a man who is the primary grower of organic in digo in the world, and another who sings J oni Mitchell's Blue in heartbreaking drag, and another with the face of a derelict whose eyes literally leaked blue, and I called this one the prince of blue, which was, in fact, his name. 15. I think of these people as my blue correspondents, whose job it is to send me blue reports from the field. 6 BLUETS 16. But you talk of all this jauntily, when really it is more like you have been mortally ill, and these correspon dents send pieces of blue news as if last-ditch hopes fo r a cure. 17. But what goes on in you when you talk about color as if it were a cure, when you have not yet stated your dis- ease. 18. A warm afternoon in early spring, New York City. We went to the Chelsea Hotel to fuck. Afterward, from the window of our room, I watched a blue tarp on a roof across the way flap in the wind. Yo u slept, so it was my se cret. It was a smear of the quotidian, a bright blue flake amidst all the dank providence. It was the only time I came. It was essentially our lives. It was shaking. 19. Months before this afternoon I had a dream, and in this dream an angel came and said: You must spend more time thinking about the divine, and less time imagining unbuttoning the prince of blue's pants at the Chelsea Ho- 7 BLUETS tel. But what if the prince of blue's unbuttoned pants are the divine, I pleaded. So be it, she said, and left me to sob with my face against the blue slate floor. 20. Fucking leaves everything as it is. Fucking may in no way interfere with the actual use of language. Fo r it can not give it any foundation either. It leaves everything as it is. 21. Different dream, same period: Out at a house by the shore, a serious landscape. There was a dance underway, in a mahogany ballroom, where we were dancing the way people dance when they are telling each other how they want to make love.

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